


Once Bitten, Twice Shy

by CaughtAGhost



Category: Iron Man (Comics), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha Steve Rogers, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Attempted Murder, Character Death, Hurt Tony, M/M, Omega Tony Stark, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Tony's got issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-22
Updated: 2018-12-13
Packaged: 2019-07-01 03:16:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15765483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaughtAGhost/pseuds/CaughtAGhost
Summary: Tony Stark doesn’t really trust Alphas.Ever since the day Obadiah died, it has rained. Tony isn’t superstitious but it’s hard not to attribute meaning to coincidences, not when his nerves are fried and he’s half sure his house is haunted.*In which Tony Stark grapples with his birth designation, the sudden death of his incarcerated ex-husband, and Alpha police detective Steve Rogers, who keeps popping up at all the wrong times. Obie is dead, Tony is independently and happily widowed, miraculously still a board member of his own company despite being unmarried, and all is well. Except, things aren't what they seem and Tony can't explain it but someone is trying to ruin him, someone is doing this, he isn't insane. He isn't insane.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work in progress, also my first published attempt at this sort of universe. This is going to go some dark places, lads. I live for comments, please consider that if you enjoy reading and would like to see this updated.

Tony Stark doesn’t really trust Alphas.

Ever since the day Obadiah died, it has rained. Tony isn’t superstitious but it’s hard not to attribute meaning to coincidences, not when his nerves are fried and he’s half sure his house is haunted.

He hears the ghost of a killer making the floorboards creak and the pipes groan from his bed at night. The second pot of coffee drips and coughs steam. He hones in  on that, focuses on the sound of the wind drumming on the roof and windows; it’s almost enough to drown out the ghost lurking, making things in his head go bump. So he’s been avoiding the house, spending more time at the tower under the pretense of work, embarrassed to say he’s scared to spend too much time in the house his husband tried to murder him in. The house, within which he’s half sure his husband’s ghost has been lurking around, since the exact same day this god awful rainy spell started.

He doesn't see him in his dreams, he doesn't feel his hands on his throat in his nightmares.

It’s embarrassingly superstitious, enough so to make him wonder if there’s any substance to the stereotypes about hysterical Omegas.

“You don't look so good, boss.”

Someone is speaking to him. The clouds clear from his eyes and he comes back to earth, from wherever he had floated away to. At his desk, in his office, cup of coffee cooling in his hand. Happy stares at him. Tony realizes he’s scenting flagrant distress; Happy speaks in soft tones, like he’s scared to spook him. A nervous mare.

“Oh. Crazy time last night. Hungover as hell,” Tony lies with saddening ease. “Guess I spaced out, huh?”

“I'll say,” Happy agrees. “Someone is here to see you. Doesn't have an appointment.”

_ Pulse quickens, hands clam up, stop panicking, Stane is dead, he's never coming back, he's dead, he's dead-- _ “Did he give a name?”

“Yeah. Rogers. Said he's with the police.”

Oh.

“Let him in,” Tony says.

“Are you sure? I could tell him you're at lunch,” Happy says. There's the sound of someone pointedly clearing his throat in the hall outside the door.

“I think he heard you, Hap,” Tony sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose. He would have like to avoid-- “It's okay. Let him in. Go get me something for my head, would you?”

Happy looks uncomfortable leaving Tony alone right now. He puffs his chest out, stands a little taller; he couldn’t be more obviously posturing if he tried, and Tony finds it both irritating and endearing. He jerks his head slightly, makes it clear that he doesn’t need babysitting. He can’t really imagine how pathetic he must look right now to warrant the pity. Usually his friends ( _ friends, what fucking friends, the people you call friends are on your payroll _ ) at least make some effort to act neutral when they’re blatantly treating him differently for being a damaged Omega. On his way out, Happy holds the door open and Detective Rogers enters. A broad shouldered Alpha, the kind that doesn’t need to posture because they’re used to everyone in the room automatically showing submission to them, the kind that doesn’t think about any of that and then wonders why everyone else does. His hair has been combed carefully, face shaven close and smooth. Not a thread out of place.

The room suddenly fills with the cloying, neutral scent that Alpha law enforcement officials sometimes wear, to prevent their designation from making them overly intimating to the people they’re helping. Civilians, you know, and Tony isn’t really a civilian-- he is, but the things he’s seen, what he’s endured, he isn’t going to fucking shit himself if an officer comes around stinking of Alpha.

“Hello, Anthony.” First name is too intimate, almost patronizing, but the use of his formal first name, rather than ‘Tony’-- which would be more intimate-- is, disconcerting. They aren't strangers; Steve Rogers was the responding officer on the scene the night Obadiah tried to end Tony's life. Steve Rogers is the Alpha that Tony (humiliatingly threw himself at) sought comfort from the days following Obadiah's arrest, when Tony was frazzled and fried and medicated, desperate for someone to tell him it was alright. The spite comes from that, from the shame. Tony is ashamed of himself and he has to mask it well.

Not that anything ended up happening. Above all else, Steve Rogers is a saint, a real holier-than-thou saint.

Tony wets his lips. “What brings you, Sergeant Detective?” Tony asks, keeping his voice even, face carefully neutral. He probably looks like shit, anyways, it’s been a shit morning and he’s the  _ picture _ of traumatized Omega. It isn’t the face he usually lets the public see. People who aren’t close to him are always surprised when they meet him up close;  _ you’re shorter than I expected, smaller, you make yourself so small, you seem so scared. _

Bullshit, everyone’s scared. Omegas just have a lot more to be afraid of.

“I didn't know if you heard the news yet. About Stane,” he says. The way he stands, perfectly front and center, with his spine straight as a rod and hands behind his back-- like a perfectly calibrated watch, Tony briefly has the urge to take him apart, piece by piece, to see what makes him tick. Back before one Alpha single-handedly dismantled whatever part of him was capable of trust, of curiosity, of anything beside wariness. There’s a reason Tony spends his heats alone, now. Doesn’t go out past dark. His drive for human closeness has frozen over.

“That he bit it?” Tony says, curt. Steve’s expression shifts. “Yeah, I heard. You didn't have to come here for that.”

“I didn't have to,” Steve agrees. They're both quiet, until the silence builds like a silent vibration in Tony’s boiling blood and he can't stay still anymore. It'll consume him. 

_ Silence is Obie’s weapon of choice. Tony won’t know he’s done something wrong until a significant amount of time past the transgression. Obie likes to leave him in silence, cold shoulder, silent treatment until Tony catches on-- and Tony’s slow, he’s a slow, stupid boy, stupid boy, he doesn’t get it, never fast enough, he never remembers what he’s done and all he can do is ask, “Please, I’m sorry, I just, I don’t know what I did? If you could tell me what I’ve done, then maybe I could, Obie, c’mon, please? I said, please? Sorry. I’m sorry, just, what did I do? What did I do?” It goes unanswered, he begs, he goes onto his knees, makes himself small, pretty, anything to try and sway the stone monolith holding an unknown fault over his head-- _

He stands from his chair and goes to the small table by the window, laden with a few expensive bottles of scotch and a miniature espresso machine. “Can I get you anything? You take your coffee as Irish as you look, Captain?”

“Sergeant,” Steve corrects him. Tony knows what he said. He dangles the crystal bottle of scotch as an invitation. Steve squirms.

“I'm on duty.”

“So you're  _ good _ cop today.” Tony pours himself a glass and sets the bottle down just a tad bit too loudly, a tad too close to Steve.

Steve’s jaw clenches and a muscle twitches. “What are you implying?” 

Tony would probably be limp and submissive if Steve wasn’t on scent suppressants; he can catch a whiff of him, Alpha, raw, musk,  _ dominance _ , in the under draft. It’s neurotoxin, it’s poison in Tony’s traitorous body, his knees buckle and he hates his biology. They have a history, though, and Tony struggles with his place.

Tony maintains eye contact just to prove to himself that he can, as he tips his glass and takes a few swallows. It's rich and smooth but it still burns on the way down.  _ Good. _ He turns his back on Steve when he knows he has his eyes on him, and leans, looking out the wide window. Rain, all week, rain. Cast in the cold blue-grey of the sky, Tony thinks his reflection looks ill. “Why did you really come,  _ Steve? _ ”

“I already told you why I'm here.”

“Bull  _ shit. _ ” His grip tightens on his drink, and he watches rain streak down the window. The city is drowning, down below. The deluge won't stop until everything is sucked away by the water, color and warmth leached from every corner. Not until all that’s left is a wet, rotting skeleton.  

“What do you want me to say? That this is an excuse and I came because I'm worried and I wanted to see you? Is that what you want to hear?” He hears Steve say behind him. Tony doesn't answer. The rain is apocalyptic before his unblinking eyes.  _ Of course it’s what I want to hear. _

He doesn't hear Steve stand or cross the room, but suddenly there's a hand heavy on his shoulder and Tony’s body reacts reflexively. Glass shatters as he drops his drink on the floor, whipping around and falling backward so his back hits the window with a hard  _ thump _ . The air knocks out of his lungs, back pressed against the sky. Heart in his throat, bracing himself for fucking hands around his neck that won't let go,  _ won't fucking let go-- _

“Christ,” Steve breathes releasing his grip, eyes wide in surprise and then, pity. Tony fucking hates it. 

“It's fine, it's  _ fine, _ ” he growls, gritting his teeth and relaxing his shoulders, trying to catch his breath. He's light headed from the sudden panic and it makes him so goddamn mad that he can't reason with his body, make it calm down. “You really, you should know better, going around grabbing Ome-- people, grabbing people like that.” He means Omegas; how else Steve expected him to react is beyond him. It’s written into his nerves like breathing.

Steve steps forward, hand extended, but then thinks better of it, and let's his arm drop limp to his side. “I didn't mean to.” It’s totally impolite, it’s so impolite, taking advantage of an Omega’s nature, even on accident, even just, even just grabbing--

“Of course you didn’t mean to. You just  _ startled _ me. You startled me,” Tony says, bitter. He looks at the shards of glass scattered around his feet on the carpet. Without looking up, even, he can feel Steve staring. Tony feels Steve’s pitying eyes and sees what he sees; a pile of broken fucking pieces. It’s messy. It’s raw.

Tony knows an explanation is due but he doesn't have one. He’s just  _ like this _ all of a sudden. Stane being behind bars, Stane being dead, it doesn't matter, it doesn't make him any less afraid because Tony doesn't even  _ know _ what he's afraid of these days. There’s nothing out there, right? Really, he’s got it all, he’s the Omega who got his cake and ate it, too. No Alpha, hardly any restrictions on his lifestyle, he got his company and autonomy and his abuser behind bars, that’s more than any other battered wife will ever fucking get. So why does it feel like this? Like he isn’t, isn’t, like he isn’t, safe. His eyes sting with hot tears that he blinks back, still looking down. He hates himself for being like this.

Fucking weak.  _ Pathetic, Tony. Let me help you _ , he feels Stane’s ghost whisper hotly against the shell of his ear. 

“Breathe,” Steve commands. Easier than it sounds.

_ Try and breathe with my hands around your neck, little one. _

Tony sucks in a breath fast, shuddering as he exhales. He teeters on the edge of sobbing. Stars dance before his eyes. His chest hurts. He can't fucking  _ breathe, it isn’t safe. _

_ “Breathe _ , you need to take slower breaths or you’re going to pass out,” Steve repeats, voice firm. He sounds distant, even though they're side by side. Tony’s head is wrapped up in thick cotton. He doesn't understand what's happening, but he feels like he's dying and all he can do is stare at the piece of glass on the floor and the stain of scotch soaking into the carpet, frozen.

“I'm dying, I feel like I'm dying,” he says. He knows that his voice comes out wrong, that the words barely make it out between aborted, sharp breaths.

“You're having a panic attack, you have to just breathe. You aren't dying, I promise. It'll go away in a minute, you just have to try to breathe,” Steve says. His voice is soft and low, and out of the corner of his eye, Tony can see that he's standing very still.

Tony breathes. He holds a breath in and then forces it out as slow as he can, hands shaking. A fat, hot tear drops off his chin and he watches it land next to a tiny piece of glass. Still pressed against the window, Tony can feel the rhythmic drum of the rain, vibrating in his bones. The chill of the pane is grounding.

After a few deep breaths in the quiet, Tony doesn't  _ quite _ feel as much like he's dying any more. He just feels angry, and stupid, ramped up to 100 for no reason. Dragging his sleeve roughly across his eyes to dry his face, he clears his throat, and looks up. 

“I don't like to be startled,” he says, as if he blames Steve. He wishes he could. He tries to, pretends to, because that's easy. 

Steve is still, and his expression blank. Tony isn't an idiot; he can read the underlying pity in the deceptively neutral lines of his face, he can practically scent it in the air. “Okay. I won't startle you again,” he says. Tony wishes he wouldn't talk so slow and calm. He feels like a child. “Do you feel okay?”

“I'm fine,” he snaps.

The contrast is ugly. Steve: stoic, a pillar, straight and still in his clean cut uniform and his clear eyes and his clear head. Steady. He isn't flimsy and buckling like Tony. It bothers him that it’s stereotypical of their dynamics even though it has nothing to do with that, and everything to do with experience. Tony resents him, suddenly for being there to see it.

“Panic attacks aren't uncommon, you know. If you're traumatized--”

“ _ Everyone  _ is traumatized, I'm not broken. For fuck’s sake, nothing even happened. He’s dead, and I have nothing to be afraid of. This doesn't have to do with Ob-- with Stane. I just don't like to be startled,” Tony interrupts defensively. Refrains from referring to his dead husband with an endeared nickname. He disgusts himself, his loyalty. It’s wired into him, every Alpha will tell him that it’s nice, that it’s his biology, that there’s no way of shaking off your God-given nature. It just makes it worse. Loyal to a fault, worse that it’s  _ embedded _ in him, built into his hardware.

“Okay, I believe you.”  _ Neither _ of them believe it. Steve is too tactful to call Tony’s lie, though, and he graciously goes along with it. Infuriating, and Tony isn’t meant to pick up on the fact that Steve is only acquiescing because he’s Alpha, he already has all the power so he can placate Tony. 

Tony’s eyes harden. He pushes himself to stand straighter, to hide the how exposed he feels, like a raw nerve throbbing in the open. He’s distress, Steve is Alpha, (very Alpha, he smells nice, he’s handsome and kind and so near), and Tony rejects the sickening urge to tilt his head back, show his throat. “If all you came here to do was to tell me Stane died, then you've done it,” he says. “You should go. I have to have this carpet cleaned.”

They look at each other. They see through each other. It's a game they play, round and round, no fun to play but no fun to stop. Steve seems to decide it isn't worth the fight, which is-- vexing, it’s irritating, maybe Tony wanted to fight. “Okay. I'll be going, then.” It’s like a cold slap. Tony isn't sure what he wanted him to say, but it wasn't that.

“Okay. Happy will see you out.”

“I can see myself out,” Steve says. He looks tired. “Take care.”

Tony doesn't move even after he's gone. He stares out the window at the grey and the dark. He sees Steve, a speck on the sidewalk, drive off in a black car. The headlights flash and the wipers start and he disappears around a corner.

It doesn't stop raining.

Happy comes around once, later, to find that Tony’s abandoned his office and headed to his personal floor. Once he caught the scent of Tony’s humiliated misery, thick and unpleasant, he turned around, but not quick enough to avoid seeing Tony’s pathetic attempt at self-comfort. He’s constructed a nest, of sorts, a pile of pillows in the corner, blankets, the lights low, and, most embarrassing, the real shit-cherry on the shit-sundae, a few of Obie’s old shirts. Scent comfort.

(He’d said he was loyal to a fault, didn’t he? He doesn’t love Obadiah Stane. He never did, never will. But he was Tony’s bonded Alpha, he was, and Tony can’t just  _ undo _ their marriage, he can’t undo that Obie twisted him and moulded him until Tony needed him, the coward.)

Happy sees him, the scene clicks, just too late.

Tony is mortified. Wide eyes, slack jawed, hot shame burning under his skin. He masks it well. Bares his teeth, practically screams, “Get  _ out _ , out, get the fuck--  _ get out _ ,” as he throws a pillow at his well meaning friend.  _ Not friend, you don’t have friends. No one pays you any attention unless you put out, or write a check. _

While he has a personal floor at the tower, it isn’t his home. In that, he means, it isn’t his legal residence, and it’s too detached from his life. Moving out of his marriage home feels like a betrayal, so he sleeps there, eats there. His psychiatrist says it’s good for him, for Omegas, to have a place to keep house, a place to nest, to make their own after trauma. Tony thinks he might want a new psychiatrist, but still. The point stands, he lives at the brick house, on the edge of the city.

There's a bar near Steve’s precinct, that Tony finds himself gravitating toward when he's killing time driving blocks in circles, stalling going home to his (haunted) house as long as he can. It's the kind of place that he would feel nervous leaving his nice car unattended in the lot, except for the fact that law enforcement officers are the patrons for the most part.

Despite the dilapidated exterior, it's a clean, wholesome feeling bar, so Tony doesn’t feel too  _ badthreatenedscared _ hanging around there, unclaimed. A few TVs have been mounted on the walls and broadcast a football, and the lights aren't too dim to see the faces of the people sitting around tables eating wings. He feels safe here because it’s all cops, it’s so obviously a police hangout. Then again, when have any vulnerable people been safe from police, the people sworn to protect them? 

Tony hasn't ever been to a sports bar that  _ actually _ serves wings. He thought that was something TV made up. Now, he thinks maybe he frequents high-end places too often. A glowing neon sign behind the bar emblazons the name of the joint:  _ Rachel’s. _

“You don't look much like a Rachel,” he says to the bartender as he slides onto a stool, distancing himself from any other patron. The bartender is twice Tony’s size, head and chin the same grey stubble. He grunts.

“You aren't a cop,” the man says. 

“How do you know? Kidding, kidding. You caught me,” Tony says. At first, he thinks the man is joking but he makes a seriously angry expression and Tony’s playful smirk fades.

A voice behind Tony says, “Easy, Franklin. He’s with me.”

_ Franklin _ gives Tony the stink eye. “Whatever you say, Sarge. Usual for you?”

Steve sits down beside Tony, and he's too big for the bar stool for sure. “Make it two,” he says, and Franklin produces two bottles of beer, a brand Tony doesn't recognize. He’s never been a beer person, and especially not this swill. He prefers Scotch, though he isn’t sure if it’s organically his preference, or if it’s something instilled into him by Stane.

Steve thanks him, and once Franklin is out of earshot, Steve pops the metal lid off and takes a swig of the beer. “It's probably cheaper than what you're used to,” he says, to Tony without looking at him. Tony realizes the second beer is for him and he opens it, giving it a sniff.

“Well. When in Rome,” he says before having a taste. It isn't very good. He wrinkles his nose, says, “This tastes like piss.”

Tony hadn't been expecting to see Steve tonight. Hoping, maybe, because why else would he have come here? But not expecting it. He feels a bit like he was caught peeking behind a closed door. He doesn't belong here, and it’s obvious that Tony hadn't come here for the quality beverages.

From the outside looking in, they could be friends catching up over a beer. Nothing seems unusual, beside the slight awkwardness in the wake of their interactions earlier in the week.

“Should I bother ask why you came here?” Steve asks finally.

“What, beside for the appetizers?” Tony says. 

“C’mon.”

“Maybe I got a real hankering for ranch wild wings. And soggy celery.”

“Okay. So I shouldn’t bother ask, right.”

Tony shrugs. He sets his bottle on the counter and traces the rim with his finger. “Is it frustrating you not getting a straight answer to that question, Sarge _? _ ” Tony says. His voice borders on spiteful.

“I don't like being called that,” Steve answers, effectively deflecting the accusation.

“Why not? You let old buddy Franklin call you that. Come on,  _ Sarge _ , lighten up.”

Tony is just making conversation, but he notices Steve’s knuckles go white and his jaw twitch and realizes that there's a real reason.Without scent suppressant, he smells-- 

Oh.

Tony feels it in his knees, in his shoulders. His skin prickles, the scent of a threat, the urge to tilt his head, roll over and show his belly, it’s--

Overwhelming.

He can't decide whether he should lay off, or push harder. It's tempting, antagonizing Steve. He just seems so composed, so rigid, so collected. Tony wants to push and push and push and see what it takes to make that all snap.

Everyone has a breaking point, after all.

Steve changes the subject and Tony is almost disappointed. “This rain is really something. My car stalled twice today.”

“Are you really going to hit me with small talk about the weather?” Tony says.

Steve looks sheepish. “I don't know. I don't know why you're here. What do  _ you _ want?”

And what does Tony want? He never knows, that's always been his problem. Nothing satisfies him. He picks things up-- people, hobbies, careers-- he chews them up and spits them out and never comes out feeling full.

“I want a plate of the finest wings this establishment can provide,” he says, grinning. He isn't hungry.

Steve smiles. “Well, that I can actually get you.”

It turns out, Tony can’t have a plate of wings, because it’s the kind of place that does ‘baskets’. The wings come in a basket with chips and ranch.

Tony hardly touches the food when it comes but he decides that the beer is an an acquired taste and he puts away quite a few. Steve doesn’t give shit about it being too many drinks for a ‘nice Omega’, so he scores secret points in Tony’s head. Steve matches Tony drink for drink and seeming to loosen up a bit over the appetizer. At first Tony thinks Steve is a different person here, surrounded by his people, in a place where he's comfortable, but even now, it’s like he's on duty. Not literally, by Steve’s eyes periodically sweep the room. He keeps a clear view of the door. He watches people that he doesn't recognize, he’s constantly-- it’s this thing, Alpha’s do, .

(Maybe there's something to this PTSD thing.)

He also discovers that Steve can drink Tony under the table, which shouldn’t be surprising given their difference of size and designation, but Tony likes to think he’s got an alcohol tolerance that makes up for what he lacks, being an Omega. Tony doesn't remember switching to dirty margaritas, but there are a few empties around the plate of chicken bones and congealing grease.

The patrons of the bar have dispersed and they're the last ones hanging around. Tony, silently triumphant in having evaded his haunted house for this long, dreads the fact that he’ll probably have to head back soon. He's sure that the ghost and the rain are conspiring together against him, trying to hole him in because of the storm, and Tony thinks,  _ I always lose. _

“You're not drunk  _ at all _ ,” Tony says suddenly. He tries to count the empty bottles on Steve’s side but Tony is seeing triple and it's far too taxing a task to focus that hard on anything.

“I'm a little buzzed,” Steve says. Tony makes a noise.

“Not fair. You're  _ huge. _ ”

Steve chuckles, a little flushed. Aw, Tony tickled his Alpha sensibilities. “Come on, I'm gonna call you a cab.”

“That's adorable. Adorable.”

“You can't drive like this,” Steve says. 

“I can't leave my car like this. I'll call, yeah, I’ll call a driver.”

“Won't he have to leave his car here to drive you home in yours?”

Tony makes a face. “I'm too drunk for mind games.”

“I’m not playing mind games, I don’t do that,” Steve says, indignant.

“You all do that.”

“What do you mean, ‘you all’?” Steve says. Tony barks out a laugh.

“You all, Alphas. You’re all the same, you all— you know, don’t pretend not to know. Don’t do that.”

Steve’s offense fades, replaced with concern. Tony doesn’t catch on fast enough to save himself the embarrassment. “I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t do anything, it wasn’t you.” It’s left unsaid but implied, that it was someone else who jaded him, made him twisted like this. Steve politely doesn’t point out that Tony is contradicting himself, which is nice because Tony is too drunk to make decent excuses.

Steve presses his lip in a line. “There are, there were, stories. About, you.”

Sharkish grin, “Of course there are. I’m the hottest eligible Omega, haven’t you heard? Only unmarried bitch on the Forbes List—“

“No, you know what I mean, rumors.” Steve pauses, fishing for words. Tony thinks it’s cute, seeing Steve a little clumsy. A little tipsy. Tony gets the impression that Steve doesn’t do this often. Then he thinks, maybe he’s flattering himself.

“Rumors about my damage, you mean? Yeah, I bet there are,” Tony says. He means to sound bitter but exhaustion undermines his anger.

“About, yeah. You’re, skittish. Did he really, did Stane?”

“Beat me shitless?” Tony says, completing the thought. Steve is quiet. “Yeah, Steve. He tried to kill me, you were the responding officer. You know that.”

But it’s different, and Tony knows it. What is known: Stane went haywire and tried to murder his Omega. What is not known: it had been a relief. A break in the monotonous, terrifying prison that was their married life, the manipulation, the mind games. Tony doubting his own thoughts, constantly looking over his shoulder. His world not existing outside of the four walls of their house, beside what Stane exposed him to. One man, one psychopath, totally in control of Tony’s relationship with reality.

The attempted murder, really, was just the cherry on top.

“I know what happened that night. I just didn’t realize how bad it must have been, before.”

Tony shrugs, rolls it off. “I’ve had worse.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better.”

“Should I be trying to make you feel better?” The biting tone, teeth bared, all venom like he’s ready to rough and tumble for his life. Steve just looks sorry. Tony deflates, swirls his drink. “I don’t mean to snap like that. Sorry.”

He finishes his drink, winces at the taste.

Steve calls a cab, Tony forgets that he’s worried about leaving his car in the lot. They ask the cab driver to pull through somewhere for breakfast sandwiches, even though it’s the middle of the night. It’s such a ridiculous request, Tony thinks it’s so funny that Steve gets a hankering for cheese and eggs biscuits when he’s drunk, and Tony laughs too hard, sits too close.

It’s so nice, not being alone, if Steve would just touch him, maybe, just touch him, maybe the back of his neck, right at that bundle of nerves, he smells so good, he’s warm and it’s so nice, it’s like being on a date. It’s easy to project imagined closeness with someone else, when you’re both drunk and lonely. 

(He’ll be so embarrassed with himself for thinking this way in the morning.)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> spoilters for TWs:
> 
>  
> 
> tw attempted murder, drug and alcohol use, funerals

In the morning, Tony wakes with a sour taste in his throat. 

_ Oh yeah, _ he thinks.  _ I threw up when I got home _ . His mouth is sticky with stale bile and the room pitches unpleasantly. Definitely hungover, despite the throwing up the previous evening. He pieces it together in chunks, Steve walking Tony to the door and paying for the cab, Tony falling into bed alone, waking up sick, fingers clasping at the empty half of the bed. The nightmares.

He cringes. Those come back in chunks, too.

Between his patchy memory and the vomit, it’s just a lot of chunks.

First thing he needs to do is brush his teeth. He shuffles to the bathroom with his bathrobe hanging from his shoulders and avoids his reflection while he washes up. Force of habit. Head down, don’t look into the eyes. It’s an old song and dance that Tony has perfected years ago. 

Breakfast consists of a soy cappuccino and a handful of Tylenol to kill the hangover. Tony pointedly does  _ not  _ listen out for ghosts. He reads the paper. He’s reading the paper. He’s very much reading, and he doesn’t keep glancing up at the head of the long dining room table, expecting to see a looming silhouette having eggs and toast. He starts getting antsy after an hour awake. The house is too still. 

It isn’t the first time he has caught himself resentfully missing his husband like some lovesick, brainwashed bitch. Tony does not love Obadiah. Not anymore. He has thrown too much money into therapy for that bullshit. And yet, this morning might be the first time he really...

It’s just different. Knowing that he’s dead changes things. There’s a lonely permanence, bittersweet: Obadiah is never coming back. He should be celebrating the victory for his independence, but he just feels lost. 

The rain finally stops in time for the funeral, only to be replaced with wind. 

Tony almost changes his clothes before the service, out of spite more than anything. Obadiah had written in his will specifically what he’d like Tony to wear, and it gets under his skin that his dear old husband is still dictating his thoughts and actions from beyond the grave. It’s a perfectly fitted black Armani piece, from a collection designed specifically for Omegas. High neck, tighter than it should be, flaunting every curve of the body. 

Of course, he’s painfully loyal and as much as he’d like to spit in the grave, he figures it’ll be over soon. He tells himself that he’s taking the high road, but he just feels like a coward.

Happy texts that he’s out front to pick Tony up and out of habit, Tony grabs an umbrella on the way out the door. It’s mildly disconcerting, stepping outside and  _ not _ being assaulted by rain, and he realizes maybe the lack of drops against the roof and windows could have been the cause for the creeping, extra feeling of silence this morning. Buckled into the back and slumped against the window, he’s relieved for that. An excuse. His house isn’t haunted. Tony is not crazy. 

Happy drops Tony at the cemetery and takes the car to park. The ground is damp under Tony’s shoes; he walks toward the funeral party, a cluster of darkly dressed men, almost all men, almost all Alpha. A few Betas who knew Obadiah through business, and Tony, of course. Obadiah seemed to believe his place was amongst his own kind. Tony can almost hear him saying something like that, something about keeping to your kind, knowing one’s place. God knows he had to show Tony his place enough times.

And he isn’t even halfway across the cemetery when his skin starts prickling with fear, with discomfort. He isn’t that anymore. He never wanted to be, but now, he wasn’t. He was Tony Stark. Not a brainwashed housewife. He didn’t have to be that anymore.

Obadiah’s friends will never see him any way except for that which Obie had bent him into. Tony puts up an extra strong guard and squares his shoulders, projects power, calm. It doesn’t make a difference.

“Ah, there he is,” says Zeke. Not Tony’s kid. “We were wondering if you’d show.”

“Of course I did,” Tony says, biting back something more scathing. He arranged the service, he paid for it, his money, his ex-fucking-husband. Think what they may, Tony isn’t totally tactless. If he can grit his teeth and play nice long enough to survive the service, then they could at least try to treat him like he has more than two brain cells. Tony, an actual genius, spends a lot of time defending his intellect and it’s exhausting. 

“You look nice,” someone else says. Tony jerks his head in reply, mumbles a ‘thank you.’

He looks over his shoulder. Is Happy done parking the car yet? He would like Happy to be here, Happy’s supposed to be here so Tony isn’t alone with these people. Not that he can’t handle himself, but it sure is a lot to handle alone.

The coffin is closed. 

That makes about enough sense, given the official story. Stane, beaten bloody and beyond recognition in the prison yard, stabbed a couple times, and then there had been an explosion, some kind of freak accident that took out most of Obie’s assailants and what was  _ left _ of Obie, all in one go. There hadn’t been much left to bury, so he’s told. The funeral director had politely offered him a chance to look, if he wanted. He didn’t.

“This must be very hard on you,” says a voice behind him and Tony jumps.

Obadiah’s first wife. 

“And you,” Tony replies flatly, trying not to be impolite. He can only imagine the poor woman must be fragile; God knows Tony is. Was. Whatever. Stane knows how to do a number on an Omega, that’s all he’s saying.

She doesn’t scent sad, though. Carefully neutral, maybe on purpose. Maybe she’s braver than Tony knows. Surrounded by Alphas, they share an understanding, a thread of connection.

The service begins and Happy finds Tony’s side. 

 

*

_ October 12 2017, roughly one year ago. _

This is the day Obadiah tries to kill him. Tony half knows something’s coming on the way home from the psych evaluation. The board has pressured him into it, threatened to take away rights if he didn’t submit to the appointment. Tony thinks Obie must’ve said something. It’s embarrassing, all he has is his work and he’s been letting his home life bleed into the one goddamn thing that makes him happy. Spacing out, forgetting things,  _ simple _ things, he flinches during R&D meetings and he  _ hates _ himself for it, because whether or not he likes it, he’s representative of all Omegas when he’s at work. 

He knows it isn’t fair, but he isn’t judged as an individual. His designation means everything. 

And isn’t he so lucky his husband lets him work, isn’t he so lucky his forward thinking Alpha lets him come in to do R&D sometimes, even though it feels like Tony hasn’t seen outside of his house in the better part of a month? 

Anyways. The psych eval. He thinks Obie put the board up to it, and when Tony asks about it in the car, Obie says, “It’s for your own good, Tony. You know how you get. I only want what’s best for you. I know what’s best.”

Except he says it through gritted teeth and the scent of his barely-contained anger fills Tony’s nose like noxious gas and he doesn’t know what he’s really done wrong? Because he answered all the psychiatrist’s questions, you know, he answered them  _ well _ , he thinks he’s done well but they won’t know until later, which Tony thinks is odd because can’t she just tell him if he’s sane enough to work, please? 

(Later, Tony finds out it was because Obadiah had tried to stall her off with a bribe. When she wouldn’t take it, when she wouldn’t take the cash to push Tony out of Stark Industries, she unknowingly put the final nail in the coffin for Tony. Obadiah had tried, it seems, to get rid of him without killing him first. That’s nice, he guesses.)

He passes the test.

Tony doesn’t find out right away. After the appointment, they’re home together. Tony sits in the bedroom and drinks, takes a Valium, lays in bed with a martini watching rain run down the window outside tangled in their satin sheets. Obadiah keeps a well furnished house on Tony’s dollar.

He turns on the radio, it’s country. He doesn’t like country but it’s on, Obie likes country, Obie likes it so Tony could, maybe, try to like he, he could try, and things would just be so much easier if he could just be good, wouldn’t it? The pill makes his head fuzz and he isn’t supposed to drink on them but Obie’s never said anything and there’s no harm, Tony figures. His Alpha is so forgiving of his nasty drinking habit. Unbecoming, he knows, but hey, it keeps him docile.

Twangy guitar and southern drawl float through the bedroom, Tony spills a little of his martini on the sheets. He hears Obadiah on the phone and tries to listen, but he doesn’t try hard enough to get up and press his ear to the door, or anything. 

It isn’t of that much interest. He’s too medicated to be that curious. He floats, tangled in the sheets. 

“... You’re sure? I thought I made myself very clear before...”

Obie always does, doesn’t he? Makes himself  _ so very clear. _

“... Fine, then. Alright. No, of course I’m happy. Of course it’s good news.” Tony thinks the phone call cuts out around then. It isn’t really good news, it’s easy to tell from his tone of voice, but Tony doesn’t even know what world of hurt he’s in for until he hears footsteps thundering toward the bedroom door.

He doesn’t flinch; that’s what the pills are for. 

Obadiah pauses, just outside the door. A moment of silence, heavy and long. Tony can hear his thick breathing, the subtle creak of the floor shifting beneath his static weight. Teetering on the edge of an already made decision, Tony knows, in hindsight. 

Obadiah deliberates for less than one minute before deciding to kill Tony.

Once he makes up his mind, Obadiah does not waver. There is no hesitation, no regret, no mercy. Obadiah strides into his bedroom and sits on the edge of the bed. Tony doesn’t even know what’s coming, sprawled across the mattress in his robe, drinking a martini, doped out of his fucking mind on happy-housewife pills. He blinks, bleary. “Something wrong, dear?” he asks.

Obadiah sighs and his shoulders sag. He turns his head, drags his eyes over Tony. “It’s just such a waste,” he says sadly. Tony doesn’t get it.

“What is?”

Obadiah puts his hand on Tony’s thigh, rubs his thumb in circles over the skin. “I tried to do it the kinder way, you should know that. I tried to make it easy for you, Tones. You never let anything be easy, do you?”

“I don’t-- what did I do? Did I do something wrong?” Tony asks, trying to sit up and spilling more of his drink onto his lap. He feels too heavy; Obadiah touching him makes his head spin and he feels far away.

It must look awfully pathetic. His sluggish attempt at sitting upright, sloshing his drink, blinking in confusion. Slow, clumsy, unaware. A delirious animal about to be put down. Stane says, “You aren’t even here right now, are you, sweetheart?”

“I’m right here,” Tony tries to say. Obadiah’s hand slides up his leg, up his torso onto his chest. Flat-palm against Tony’s breast, he presses him onto the mattress with ease and his hand goes higher to tease Tony’s neck. It isn’t fair. Of  _ course _ he isn’t here; any Omega would struggle to remain present drugged like this, with an Alpha’s hand touching him right at the spot that makes his body go limp. 

Obadiah clicks his tongue. “You’re a miserable little thing. Aren’t you? You’re so miserable. I never knew what to do with you. You make it so  _ difficult _ , wanting to be kind, and God, I wanted to want to be kind to you. I wanted to be a good husband to you, a  _ strong  _ Alpha, to show you the path of least resistance. This is the only way for you, isn’t it? Pathetic, Tony,” he says, dry sympathy. Tony’s mind is reeling. “Would it have been so hard for you to let it be easy? To be a fucking housewife and stay out of my hair?”

Tony’s seeing spinning colors and the only solid thing is Obadiah.

“I don’ un’erstand, I passed, the eval’u’tion, I did  _ good _ ,” Tony slurs, eyes open startlingly wide, looking for answers. Stupid, still not seeing that Obadiah set him up to fail. He was incredibly vulnerable, spiralling in biological inadaquacy panic. Tony never did make things easy, did he? Stupid Omega. Stupid thing.“I don’ know how, I wan’ to be good. I do, I wan’ be  _ happy _ .”

Obadiah sighs, pitying. “Let me help you.”

He pinches the back of Tony’s neck-- right at the nap-- and Tony is rendered utterly boneless. His capacity for higher thought is effectively devastated. He’s a sponge, soaking in sound and touch and feel and emotion, that’s all, all he feels is hurt. He can’t muster resentment or anger, like this.  _ I’m, bad? I’m bad. Pathetic, Tony. Pathetic Tony, he tried to help me? I’m difficult, and bad? I’m so bad. Bad Tony.  _

He’s utterly trusting. It’s disgusting. He tilts his chin up, shows his throat. “‘M sorry. Sorry. S’rry.” He doesn’t know better in this state, and Obadiah makes a soft noise, tightening his hand. It starts to hurt. He slides his palm around to the front of Tony’s neck. Tony chokes a little, eyes wide. He feels so far away.

Then, Obadiah squeezes.

“ _Gack--”_ Tony can’t breathe, makes a weird noise, eyes bugging out. He can’t breathe. Panicked, his focus flicks back and forth until he lands on Obadiah, looking up at him. _Why is this happening? I passed the evaluation. I said I was sorry._ _What did I do? What did I do?_

“Shh, easy,” Obie says. His hand is like a vice. 

Tony’s survival instinct has never been very strong, but under the influence and coaxed into a suggestive state, he’s helpless. He’s really helpless. Still, he tries. He does  _ try, _ he thinks it’s important that that be noted. His hands feels tiny and ineffective, prying against Obadiah’s, which is like iron around his throat. 

Then, his grip relaxes, just the tiniest bit-- just enough that Tony can almost,  _ almost catch his breath, why would he let up now? _

It clicks, through the haze: Obadiah is enjoying this. He pets Tony’s hair. Black spots dance across Tony’s vision. There is no mercy in his husband’s face. Sadism and rage, constantly just beneath the surface, bloom in his eyes like dark blossoms. 

“Try and breathe with my hands around your neck, little one,” he coos softly, and Tony’s too gone to see it, the gleaming satisfaction in his weasely little eyes. He wants to see Tony struggle.

Tony tries, obviously. He’s flopping like a fucking fish, oxygen deprivation is a real bitch and the body goes into panic mode pretty fast when it can’t take a breath. 

“Look at you, you’re really struggling, aren’t you? This is where you belong, Tony, choking under me. No one will ever even know how this happened,” he says. Tony’s eyes dart toward him not understanding. “It’ll be a shame, when people hear that my wife tragically committed suicide. Drank himself to death, too many Valium. They’ll say, ‘He was Tony Stark, once, how pathetic for him to turn to nothing like that.’”

It burns Tony, it’s exactly the right thing to say to take any possible peace that might be found in his final moments and destroy it. Tony could weep. He just wants to be good, and it conflicts on an atomic level with his inherent rejection of being a simpering Omega.

Somewhere in the distance, over the hilariously out-of-place country music that still plays over the radio. The one time he makes an attempt to enjoy the loathsome, ear-grating music, and he gets to die to it. Even now, he can recognize the humor of the situation. 

_ Here Lies Tony: died while willingly listening to Kenny Chesney for the first and last time ever, trying to be a good wife for the first and last time ever. _

The rest is sort of blurry He becomes hypoxic enough to stop registering fear and pain, and his limbs tingle and float and he feels hollow euphoria as his vision dims. Oxygen deprivation isn’t so bad after the first push. It’s like floating away. 

Tony loses consciousness and the last thing he registers is louder sirens.   
  


They tell him that Steve--  _ Sargent Rogers _ , was the first officer on the scene, who essentially stopped Obadiah from finishing the job on Tony’s life. They tell him that, but by the time Tony woke up, his bedroom was a crime scene, Obadiah was in handcuffs, and a Beta was cooing at him, shoving a shock-blanket in his face.

 

Unsurprisingly, Sargent Rogers is not invited to the funeral.

Happy takes Tony’s side by the time the eulogy begins. Stane’s son (not Tony’s, thank you), begins speaking to the group of mourners standing beside the casket. Tony is surprised that there is no church service-- graveside only. Obadiah had never really been a believer, but he was self righteous enough to believe he deserved a holy send off. Maybe there were still things he didn’t understand about the man he married. 

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.

Tony will not ever trust twice again; not even his dead husband.

“My father,” Zeke begins, “Was many things.”

Tony almost scoffs.  _ Sure. Manipulator, embezzling crook, war hawk, and oh yeah, murderer-- _

“A brilliant businessman and strategist. A beloved father and husband,” Zeke continues. His eyes scan the crowd and land on Tony. “Obadiah Stane, above all else, was a futurist. Unlike many people, who walk through life only seeing what has come to pass already, my father had the extraordinary ability to see forward, to think of what comes next.”

Tony wants to scream, _liar._ _An opportunist, but never the futurist. I was the futurist, me. Why can no one see me?_ But he knows why. It really is special, though, the way Obie’s kid can twist his father into the image of someone admirable. Tony supposes it’s a trait he must have inherited from his weasely father, the charismatic dishonesty. 

“My father took a struggling business and turned it into his empire,” Zeke says. Happy’s eyes flit to Tony, and Tony is already beginning to shake with anger. “And with that empire, he’s filled a very important role supplying weapons to the military. Not just that, but he’s built a legacy that I can only hope to live up to...”

Zeke will never touch Tony’s company as long as Tony is still breathing.

“He’ll be missed every day, and I’m certain that he will live on, cherished in the hearts of me, and his wife.”

Tony supposes that that’s his cue.No mention of how he tried to murder the wife, but whatever.  


A wind tears through the cemetery, whistling through the trees. Tony walks to the front stiffly, hyper-aware of himself, his body. He knows he looks good in the suit he’s wearing. He knows how it displays his body, makes even an old, washed up O like himself look nice. He used to be very beautiful. Now, though, it feels like a scarlet letter on his chest, burning. 

His clothes are too loose, though, he realizes. He notices his jacket sag where it should accentuate a feminine curve along his hip. It just sags. Saggy, empty fabric, that flaps in the cutting wind. He doesn’t want to speak. Jesus, that’s really all he can think about, though, is his flappy, loose jacket. Everyone stares. 

He realizes how he must look, to them. Smudged makeup, lost weight, dressed this way. He’s a veil short of being a distraught widow, eaten up over the loss of a beloved. He feels sick with himself, sick with anger at it. The way they look at him. He resents their pity, he loathes it. He is not a thing to be pitied. Fuck them.

(His knees shake.)

The cards jump out of his fingers with a particularly strong gust of wind. 

“Shit,” he mumbled, staggering to try and catch up to them before they run off entirely. One flies away. The rest scatter in muddy, soddy grass. Tony doesn’t think, he just drops down onto his knees, muttering under his breath, cursing and trying to collect the stupid fucking index cards. 

“Ahh, jeez. C’mon, let me-- Tony,” Happy says, parting the crowd and pulling Tony up. Tony has mud on his hands, and on the knees of his Armani suit. He blinks, numb.

“I, the cards.”

Zeke hands Tony a pile of sodden cards. The ink has run, and they’re stained and out of order. “Here,” he says, and Tony bites out a ‘thank you’, or at least, he thinks he does.

He can’t read those. He’s pretty sure he’s already embarrassed himself enough for one afternoon, and that embarrassment would probably be enough to satisfy the man in the closed casket a few feet away. 

“Any time now,” Zeke says. Tony means to shoot daggers but he looks doe-eyed and pathetic.

“Obviously he’s distressed. This has been a lot, for such a frazzled thing,” someone says. Tony recognizes the voice, and the white hair to match. General Ross, in attendance. Tony’s brain is too fuzzed up to try and recall his relation to Obadiah, and too fuzzed up to object to the obvious condescension. 

“Yes, thank you, I’m sorry,” Tony mumbles, stepping away from the grave, hoping to milk that ‘grieving wife’ card for all it’s worth. “I’m just, Happy, I’m going to be in the car. Sorry. I can’t do this right now.”   
  
He escorts himself back to the car and sits in the back seat and watches the wind shake the trees. He leans his head back and lets it lull him. He is so hollow that he can feel the wind inside of him, like the bone chilling note when blowing air into a thick, glass bottle.

Happy comes back thirty minutes later. Tony is exhausted and doesn’t lift his head off the seat, but he is filled with relief.

“Why did you stay?” Tony asks as Happy starts the ignition. 

“In case anything happened that you would’ve wanted me to fill you in on,” Happy says. Tony half smiles. Happy twists around and slips him a small piece of cardstock paper; a business card, with General Ross’s phone number. Tony squints.

“What’s this for?” he says. Happy shrugs, and the car moves away from the curb. Tony feels lighter already, pulling away from the cemetery.

“Said he’d like to catch up with you sometime, if you were interested. I don’t know, you can probably toss it, but I took it to be polite. Stiff bunch of people, eh? Jesus. I’ve never laughed less at a funeral,” Happy says.

Tony chuckles, turning the card over in his hand. He puts it in his pocket. “Guess my jokes really didn’t land then,” Tony kids back. 

He feels a bit better, now. Joking around with Happy and heading home is nice, but the true relief comes from it all being over. It feels strange, but the casket is shut, now, literally. All loose ends on this thing are tied up, and Obadiah is really, truly gone. It feels surreal. 

That night, lying awake in bed, mind pleasantly fogged over with whiskey, Tony’s good mood fizzles. He remembers that one thing has yet to be done, so nothing is quite finished. There is still the reading of the will. 

That’s the piece that Tony had forgotten.

He rolls over and looks toward the window. He sees a street light through the crack in the curtains, casting just enough light into the bedroom to make familiar shapes foreign and blurry and insidious. He hugs his pillow. Obadiah wouldn’t do anything too surprising with the will, he tells himself. It should be open and shut. He’ll have left the business, Tony’s business that Tony could never own for his designation, to the board, and the board will continue to let Tony work, having passed that goddamn psych evaluation. He’ll likely have left some of the money to his bastard son Zeke, just enough to peeve off Tony, but the rest will be his. It’s Tony’s goddamn money, after all. 

Reasoning through it logically, he determines that there simply can’t be that much left to surprise.

Can there?

He recalls Zeke smugly returning Tony his muddy index cards. The way Zeke looked to him when he gave his eulogy. Surely now he’s reading more into it than was there. Surely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I posted one chapter and then didn't update for an entire semester. How entirely like me! Haha. It's been an incredibly hard semester from me. I am in a very bad living situation, I am broke, I may not be able to afford to continue with school, and my depression has seriously interfered with my grades. This is one of the few things I have accomplished in the past few months. Please comment. Please interact with me. I hope this chapter was a good follow up.

**Author's Note:**

> Again, this is a work in progress. I have some future installments almost ready to go and will be posted soon (hopefully) but I write for the comments. Please consider leaving a comment if you enjoyed reading and would like to see more. I've got a lot of plans for this but I need that Validation TM.


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